


Praying For Love And Paying In Naivety

by Wizard95



Series: A Fever You Can't Sweat Out [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Witchersexual Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29475987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wizard95/pseuds/Wizard95
Summary: Geralt isn't the first witcher Jaskier meets on the road. Eskel is.
Relationships: Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, but there'll be more witcher combos later, that's all there is in this one
Series: A Fever You Can't Sweat Out [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2165064
Comments: 7
Kudos: 131





	Praying For Love And Paying In Naivety

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this in my drafts for at least half a year, and inspiration finally decided to come back. It's my first ever A/B/O dynamics fanfic and I'm still kind of unsure of my E-rated writing skills, so you be the judges!

Jaskier stumbles over another rock in his haste to get away and get away quickly. Just away. Somewhere far from the beaten track too, from the one spot he hopped off about an hour ago, if the weak ball of light somewhere beyond the canopy of green above is anything to go by.

Not much longer till dark.

He should've seen it coming. He should've _felt_ it coming, damn it. 

He should've realised it was _really_ a tad bit unusually hot inside the carriage. Never mind the other five people in it. It'd been snowing that morning and he should've realised that even tightly pressed as he was against that teenage girl, he shouldn't have been flushing so. He shouldn't have been able to smell the dirt under her nails, the pepper-scent of her dirty golden locks where she'd undoubtedly brushed against a bag of spices on her way out of the kitchen.

Tired as he was, muscles aching, stomach rumbling and headache imminent, he clearly didn't take the hint.

But then again, it makes sense that he wouldn't.

When was the last time he went into heat?

He tries to remember a number of months, of years, and only manages to spike up his anxiety at the realisation that there's the blank space in his mind where that information should be.

It feels too distant. Too long ago to even remember. Too unknown a feeling, that prickly sensation under his fingertips, the still not very noticeable red in his cheeks, the dryness of his throat which he'd been feeling all day long but had chosen to put up to the coldest day to date.

His biological clock had chosen a very unfortunate night to strike twelve, indeed. 

Except, well. 

Alright. It definitely would've been much more disastrous to wake up tangled in the messy wet sheets of a creaky bed under the innkeeper's roof, some alpha or other incessantly knocking on his door. With only a window to try his luck and not the neverending stretch of trees and trunks he finds before his eyes now.

He reckons he can run from a hungry bear, climb a tree, crawl under some rock. He'll take a nasty gush to his stomach or a punctured rib over the firm grip of a muscular arm around his waist and a broad hand over his mouth any day. Not a kind word. Just a need.

He can't help but shiver a the thought, and a trembling hand goes again inside the hidden pocket of his satchel to retrieve the bag that he knows to be empty, he knows to be useless, to double-check that he didn't miss it in his haste to get away.

There's none left.

_None fucking left. You ass._

As he presses on, feet dragging on the hard soil under his soles, he can slowly feel his rationality getting away. Just slowly. His mind getting foggier and foggier, like clockwork. The darker it gets, the less he's able to think straight, the stronger the flame growing inside.

Well, that's good, isn't it?

Not many chances of catching a nasty lung affliction and dying out here if he's burning up, he reckons.

Out here alone.

In the dark, in pain, alone.

It's only by the fifth time he trips and messily falls flat on the ground that he decides to finally look for cover. Decides that he's probably far enough from civilization that even the most eager alpha can't be bothered to track him down.

He hopes.

"Bollocks," he mumbles, out of breath, kneeling on one of the nicest pair of breeches he owns but finding he doesn't give a care. He can hear the gentle sound of running water only a stretch further and he makes a run for it, feeling dehydrated.

The river is cold. He can see little flashes of light underneath, little pieces of crystalized ice that foreshadow another cruel winter season. Still, it feels heavenly on his face. It placates the heat bursting off from his every pore for the first few minutes but stops being enough quicker than he'd like to admit. 

"Fuck," he breathes out, already standing back up and making his way towards the waterfall further up the path. He can see from here it's going to be a tricky way up those rocks but again, he can't be bothered to care.

Besides, there's no place near better concealed and if he falls deep down into the freezing waters then so be it. He won't stay down here where he'll be easy prey for monsters, animals and human alike.

"Pathetic," he shakes his head and keeps a firm grip over the slippery surface of the protruding rock, clothes already half-drenched. "Too bent on coin, you were. Too stupid to realise it was high time you spent some of it."

A handful of bruises later he makes it past the powerful cascade of water, hoisting himself up and rolling on the wet stretch of plain rock through the heavy curtain of icy water. 

It's dark and damp and hard. But it works. The water will have washed away his scent. Not even the finest of hounds would sniffle his way up here.

Now he only needs to stay put. Be quiet.

Let the sound of the water hitting water lull him to sleep. 

With any luck, he'll wake up tomorrow to find himself the same old Jaskier, dizziness gone and back on his way home for winter.

(He doesn't.)

He thinks he sees light, at some point, but he's not sure. He's not sure if it's another night or the same one, if he's really spent twelve hours curled up on himself and throbbing all over. His hands are sore from his less-than-agile climbing skills and his lips are chipped despite the cloud of humidity that lingers in the air.

He loses track of time. 

He wakes up on the third night inside the cave and feels like he's burning from the inside out. He dreams about it too, about being consumed by flame, melting this cave down as if it was but an iron cage. 

The painful groans become constant background noise to the rushing of blood in his ears. He can barely hear the waterfall, in the dead of night on the fourth moon, and he shivers so much that his clothes start wearing out where they meet the rocky surface.

He wonders if he's going to die here. 

He wonders if anyone would find him, bury him. Even recognize what'd be left of him. If his parents back at Lettenhove would mourn his loss at all. If they'd think he'd just simply chosen to not come back, at last.

It's in the morning of the fifth day that the air returns to his lungs, although he doesn't know why or how. Breathing becomes just a little less painful, all of a sudden, and he opens his eyes to find it's a little bit easier to make out the colours of the wall in front, that it's a little bit brighter than it was last time he was conscious. That the air is a little bit less fraught with his own scent.

A male voice bounces off the walls surrounding him, but Jaskier can't make out the words.

By the time that alpha finds him, he's even finding it difficult to remember his own name. His brain too bent on blocking off the pain, the overwhelming ache, the _everything_ he's feeling, leaving little space for any sort of rational thought.

When a cold hand comes to press directly into the space between his neck and shoulder, Jaskier sees white, lets out the most pitiful whimper and passes out. When he comes to, that crack in the wall in front of him, the one he's been staring at for the last five days, is in a different angle.

Or rather, he is.

It takes him a little bit longer to realise that the surface underneath him isn't as hard and cold anymore, either. 

And even twice that time it takes him to realise that he's making those sounds again, the ones that make him sound like a wounded animal.

"Fuck," someone says near, and then there's someone crouching in front of him and Jaskier lunges forward without a second thought. Lunges forward towards the sweetest smelling alpha he's ever- oh gods- he hasn't- in what feels like _forever_ , "shhh, I've got you," that same voice mumbles, "you're fine."

The same coldness as before embraces him, a hand pressing down on his nape but careful not to get too close to his scent glands. Jaskier goes dizzy.

"No- please," he finds himself blurting out, pressing himself tighter against the man before him as if by some miracle that'll make the tortuous pain fade away, " _please_."

"Said I got you," that firm but gentle voice promises.

And delivers.

Jaskier isn't sure what, but something it delivers. Because the alpha brings a firm hand to his back and rubs there and immediately after he can feel himself almost deflate. Tension leaving his shoulders and clenched jaw and gritted teeth, needy hands desperately grasping at the stranger's clothes no more. 

He even lets out a sigh, and stops burrowing his nose directly into the other man's neck and rests his head on his shoulder instead, as if all energy has been extracted from his body.

"That's it," the alpha says, and finally, Jaskier can blink and see everything clear again. No more blurry colours or greyish undertones. It's like someone's lifted the clouds numbing his thoughts, enough that he can hold himself still through the gut-wrenching need inside him that makes him want to rut against his alpha like a dog.

"Breathe," the voice orders him, and Jaskier doesn't need to be told twice. He takes the deepest breath and it feels like the first proper one. He doesn't feel like everything's turning around this time.

"Uhhhghhh," Jaskier blurts out, finally detaching himself from the rough fabric of his saviour's undershirt.

"Better?"

He nods, dreamily, as he surveys the face of the man before him and feels a stubbly chin brushing the corner of his lips at the motion.

Sharp features, brown dark hair and scars on the right side of his face. His eyes, though... Jaskier nods again at those pair of hawk-like eyes staring right into his soul because words are still failing him. 

"Hmm," the alpha mumbles, giving him a once over and leaning forward to place him back down on a rug Jaskier hadn't noticed was there. The bard keeps a stronghold of the man's clothes, unwilling to let go just yet, unwilling to let him get too far just yet. It makes the man utter a guttural laugh, "lay down, pup, I'm not going anywhere."

Jaskier believes him.

But he still doesn't let go.

"Whatever made you climb up to this shithole?"

The alpha regards him with a fond look.

It takes Jaskier a moment to grasp the meaning of the words. To remember how to _form_ words.

"Heat," is the stupid answer he mutters, too lost still in those yellow orbs, staring up at the man, "caught me off guard," he adds a second later, pushing himself to do better. Pushing the still-present but dull pain somewhere where it can't hinder his ability to communicate.

The alpha scoffs.

"You don't say."

Jaskier gulps down the water being offered like his life depends on it, his own canteen being put gently to his lips like he's a toddler. 

"I could sniff ya from a mile," yellow-eyes frowns at the eagerness with which he swallows, "you smelled a proper mess too."

And Jaskier wonders why the past tense. He's still wearing his damp and muddy clothes. He feels dirt on every exposed bit of skin and his hair is probably a bird's nest at this point.

Whatever makes the alpha refer to his dishevelled appearance in the past tense, the bard doesn't know.

He goes to answer some witty remark along those lines, too, when a renewed wave of breath-taking pain washes over him unexpectedly, having him doubling.

"Fuck," his ever-so-eloquent alpha curses again, coming closer at the desperate clutch of Jaskier's hands around his forearms and the dizzying smell of fear and suffering bursting out into the air around them. Almost a sickening scent, "that's not holding up," he mumbles to himself, and frowns in discomfort as the pressing of his forearm to the bard's neck does little to appease him.

"Alpha," Jaskier pleads, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears, a strangled sound that makes it past his lips, "please, I need- it's- I can't-"

"I know, boy," he grunts and starts manoeuvring around Jaskier to get him off his doublet.

"I'm not a boy!" Jaskier grunts.

"Okay."

And he wants to argue the point further but starts getting quite light-headed again, blood boiling under his skin like it needs release. 

"What's your name?"

"Jas-" he goes to say, but finds himself retching and promptly turns on his side to puke out the water he just drank, much to the alpha's distaste. 

" _Shit._ "

Jaskier can't help but flinch at the tone.

"No, not- _don't,_ " the alpha blurts out, and his strong pair of arms go round the bard's waist and bring him to his lap and only then does Jaskier realise that _oh_ , his breeches are off as well. 

"Jaskier," he remembers to add, as he lets himself be manhandled like a rag doll, slowly purring against his alpha's neck like a cat, latching onto his firm form like a lifeline.

He stays there, panting and feeling himself slowly losing his grip again, pain flourishing inside with an unnerving pace. But he waits, air becoming harder to take in again, heart pounding loudly inside his ribcage. 

"You're too-" the alpha starts, his voice vibrating against Jaskier's flushed and exposed skin, but he cuts off, "Jaskier, how long has it been since your last heat?"

The bard shakes his head no, hoping that's sufficient information. He has a hunch the alpha already knows the answer to that, there's a voice at the back of his mind that wants to tell him something but can't make it past the thick fog. Jaskier knows this isn't usual procedure, long as it's actually been. 

He lets himself be held upright and thinks back to those yellow eyes he can't see now. He's never seen eyes like that before. And he's never seen an alpha so in control of himself and so seemingly concerned for some poor and unfortunate omega's well-being before. 

Because that's what he is.

Just some unfortunate omega that he stumbled upon. That he smelled. That he smelled from _a mile?_

The excruciating pain comes back in full, at last, and Jaskier can feel himself keel over and letting out a cry.

"Please, please help me," he manages to breathe out in a gasp, because clearly, and this must be a one-in-a-million, this alpha is in no rush and no need to knot him. And Jaskier starts shaking, scared he's going to just leave him like this, do nothing - forgetting for a moment that those strong hands have expertly stripped him of his clothes already, and that surely it mustn't be without a reason.

But he can't put two and two together.

"Jaskier."

The blood is rushing in his ears again, deafening anything that isn't his own frantic heartbeat.

"Jaskier, stay with-" he can feel the alpha talking but he can't _hear_ him anymore, "-nswer me, I need you to-" and soon he can't even register the touching of those cold hands against his lower back anymore, "alright, I'm go-" nor against his neck, or his hair. 

He lets himself be manhandled and only barely thinks he's being lifted up and set back down again, he truly doesn't know what's happening anymore, until- "Nnnnnggggh."

Until that sound makes it past his lips. Builds up from the deepest part of his belly and crawls its way up his throat and escapes his mouth without permission. Again, the air makes a sudden and shocking change. Jaskier feels it inside like someone's suddenly punched him in the stomach, but it's a _good_ punch, my _god_ is it a good punch.

He feels the alpha's cock buried deep inside and can't help but take a mouthful of air like he'd been drowning. Like he'd been left for dead in the middle of the ocean, being dragged down into the deepest and darkest parts of it but now there's an anchor. 

And Jaskier's not letting go.

"Fuck," the alpha growls, and it's a different growl this time. 

"My, that feels- that _feels_ \- _ahhh_ ," Jaskier can't talk. Only babble. There's a different scent in the air now, sweet like honey, and it's intoxicating.

"Move."

The bard curls his fingers on the alpha's dark locks, on his nape, and pulls unconsciously, eliciting the deepest growl from him. 

"Jaskier, _move_ ," comes the order again, and like something's been switched on inside him, Jaskier starts moving.

Up and down. Up and down, feeling the alpha's cock slipping in and out easily, there's just so much slick... goodness, every time he brings himself back down on it it's like he's pumping life back inside his body.

"Good boy," the man says, and Jaskier whimpers against the alpha's neck, drinking in his scent like an energetic potion, "good boy, that's it," there's a hand brushing his hair and it makes Jaskier's scalp almost sting with need, "that feel good?"

He's too busy planting heavy and wet kisses to that neck, so he only nods against the stubble in the alpha's chin, panting rapidly and only focused on not letting go, and not letting that cock come out for too long or come out at _all_ , because he's never needed anything else in his life like he needs this, right now, can't stop, won't stop-

"Touch," he breathes out, voice strangled and barely audible, pleading, "alpha, I beg you..."

"Eskel."

Jaskier almost sees white when those calloused fingers push their way in between their chests and dive down to wrap around his own painfully throbbing erection. He lets out the highest-pitched yelp as that voice echoes in his mind...

_Eskel, Eskel, Eskel..._

It's really not in his mind, but he's rather shouting the word helplessly with every thrust.

He doesn't realize he's doing so.

When Eskel's thumb brushes over the tip of his cock, Jaskier's body jerks along with the sensation taking over his whole body, heart and soul. His breath gets caught in his throat, for a moment, he stops breathing at all as the aftershocks of the most excruciatingly painful but relieving orgasm wash over him.

He shakes so much that Eskel's other hand comes around his waist again.

It's in that moment of temporary frenzy that Jaskier brings his swollen lips against the alpha's. 

No permission, no hesitation, only _need_. 

Eskel kisses him back. His tongue claims the inside of Jaskier's mouth like it's always belonged to him.

Only when the last drop of cum has been spilt in between them does Jaskier manage to open his eyes, still hazy with need. A need that'd been lying asleep inside him for too long.

Too damn long.

"Eskel," Jaskier purrs, can't help but elongate the word, brain still not quite functional, looking right into those hawk-like orbs, blinking back into reality and swallowing through a dry throat and realising he tastes _alpha_ on his tongue.

Their lips are brushing still, and Jaskier feels rather than see the smirk on the alpha's face. The hand that was previously pushing him towards climax comes to brush off sticky hair from his sweaty forehead and the bard almost melts at the tender touch.

"Still burning up," the alpha says in a murmur, with a frown that Jaskier misses because his eyes shut close again.

" _Willb'ntilyou knotme_ ," Jaskier finds himself mumbling, still feeling very hot indeed, prying his eyes back open and meeting Eskel's, "I _need_ you to," he adds, because there's something in the alpha's face that looks doubtful, almost sceptical.

"Tell me."

There's that growl again.

Jaskier blinks the fog away and rolls his hips tentatively, feeling Eskel's hands now grabbing onto his asscheeks with bruising force.

They stay still like that, for a moment, and for the first time the bard focuses on this alpha, this man, this _god_ in front of him. On his sharp jaw and wet long hair and dark stubble and plush lips, and he hears the sound of the waterfall fill the silence as he drinks in the moment.

Those broad shoulders look so very tense, Jaskier notes, and realises with urgency that Eskel's holding back. 

" _Tell_ me," Eskel breathes out again, helpless, like he's waiting for permission. 

Jaskier doesn't waste another breath as he realises he _is_ waiting for permission.

"You can have me," he says, shaking his head incredulously, fuck, Eskel can have him now, and tomorrow and any and every day after tomorrow, he can have him _forever_ , " _all_ of me," he adds in a strangled breath, feeling that flame inside him grow bigger like a fireplace splashed with wine, " _anything you want_."

When he rolls his hips one more time something in Eskel seems to snap, there's suddenly a darkness in his eyes that wasn't there before and he lets out an almost animalistic growl, lunging forward and placing Jaskier on his back in such a quick motion that the bard thinks he's imagined it.

_Yes, that's it._

Jaskier starts moaning, now.

Now that Eskel's got control.

He gives in, brings his calves around the alpha's waist and wraps his fingers around the man's wrists, right on his shoulders where Eskel's firmly keeping him pinned down to that bedroll.

It feels ten, twenty, a hundred times better than what Jaskier was doing, and he makes sure he lets Eskel know that.

Know that he should've been fucking him like this from the very fucking _beginning_.

"Don't stop," Jaskier warns, "don't you stop."

There's another inhuman sound from the alpha and then his hands leaving bruises on Jaskier's shoulders as well, and three, four, five more thrusts before he feels Eskel's knot inside him, knocking the breath out of his lungs again, making his eyes slip close again, mouth half-open in a strangled sound that doesn't come out.

His head hits the surface below _hard_ and his eyes roll over and before he knows it he's passing out.

He wakes up only a couple of hours later with a start, the memory of pain overtaking him before anything else, before that hand lands on his forehead and brushes the hair off his eyes in the most gentle way. Then comes panic, as he takes in his surroundings and tries to accommodate his mind to the reality of someone cuddling him from behind.

His heart almost jumps out of his throat as the same hand petting his hair comes to his waist to keep him from jerking away.

"Hey, hey," the alpha's voice mumbles in his ear, "it's me, you're alright, hey."

Jaskier freezes in place, disoriented and agitated and not remembering. Nothing but pain and heat and more pain. 

The nervous drum of his heart doesn't go unnoticed, and rough fingers provide a gentle caress to his naked waist.

"You don't want to move yet," adds the same voice, and Jaskier aches to turn around and put a face to it but finds he can't. He physically can't. Knotted still.

Another hand - the one whose arm is serving as his own pillow, the bard realises - appears before his eyes, a broad wrist being offered but not imposing. Jaskier takes a deep breath in and feels himself relax at the scent.

It triggers the memories almost instantly.

"Eskel," he whispers, eyes slipping shut and nose brushing against the wrist in front of him, finally giving in to the embrace. Yellow eyes and gentle touch and deep-throat grunts.

The alpha sighs as if he'd been waiting for reassurance himself, and Jaskier thinks he feels the touch of lips to his nape.

"Sleep," Eskel asks, and all Jaskier can do before helplessly dozing off again is give a hum in response.

The next time he wakes up, he's alone. 

The bedroll that isn't his is still beneath, and a thick fur that smells of alpha is still draped over him, but they're the only two things that Eskel leaves behind. Jaskier sits a long while in the silence, staring off into the waterfall in front of him and feeling hollow. He waits for the sunrise, leaves a couple of hours to the possibility, but Eskel doesn't come back and he feels stupid for thinking he would. 

He walks away from the hideout feeling a little less like himself but with certain knowledge reassured. This is why he doesn't do heats. This is why he keeps his bag of herbs always half-full. No strings attached, he'd become too used to it and now that he'd had a taste of the alternative and couldn't get any more of it, well. 

He leaves the bedroll and the fur back there, along with the memory of Eskel's rough voice but gentle touches, and the feeling of his cool skin against his chest and his stubbly jaw against his lips and his very very yellow eyes.

Or so he likes to think.

Eskel doesn't really leave. 

Jaskier turns nineteen and remembers him in winter when his heat is looming closer. He turns twenty and remembers him again as he swallows a mix of heat-suppressant herbs. He keeps remembering him every time he finds someone else's hands pinning him down and fucking him and wonders if this is one of the side-effects of being knotted by a witcher.

A damn _witcher_.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first instalment of the series, hopefully (still got Lambert and Aiden to go bf we get to the white wolf!).  
> Please let me know your thoughts (: and also come talk to me on tumblr @smuggsy.


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